Christmas Comfort
by theyleaveanote
Summary: It's John and Sherlock's first Christmas together as a couple post-Reichenbach. The holiday and the situation bring up rough memories from John's past, and Sherlock comforts him as best as he can. Rated M for naughty reasons. Johnlock.


"It's nothing."

I say it before he can ask – no, before my idiot boyfriend begins to try to figure it out on his own. He is affronted, those irritatingly expressive eyebrows quirking slightly, and perhaps rightfully so, but I can't be bothered. Honestly. Not today. Not now.

"John, I – "

"Don't." My voice is tight. The word feels like a stone as it leaves my mouth, and I _hate _shutting him out when he so infrequently ventures into the realm of sentiment, but I can't help it.

I swallow hard, staring blankly out the window. My morning teacup has lost almost all sense of warmth; it feels like bone in my clenched fist. The snow covers Baker Street in a light dusting, and when I blink I see red.

Something wells up in me. It feels too much like a sob for me to bear the thought of letting it spill out, and, jerkily, I stand to attempt to lock myself in our bedroom.

He catches my arm. His hand is bare, and even through my thick winter jumper, I can feel his familiar heat, and the sob nearly slips out. I grind my teeth against the inside of my lip, feeling a muscle in my jaw work madly.

He tucks the crook of his finger under my chin and, despite my best efforts, tugs me to face him. I look away, but I can feel his eyes scanning my face. I _know _they must be fraught with concern, and what's more, a degree of which he only saves for me, and that makes it all the worse.

"Not now, Sherlock," I say croakily. He leans close. The warmth from his tall body covers mine, and I feel that familiar sense of calm spread over me like heat from a fire when you've been out in the cold all day, simply from feeling the whole of his entity focused on me.

Today, though, it only burns.

"I thought you liked Christmas," he says. His voice is confused, and edged with irritation. I can tell easily – though no one else would – that it's not irritation at my mood, however, but rather irritation at himself for not being able to immediately deduce its source. "You seemed perfectly pleased to celebrate it last year, and after all, _you're _the one who insisted we have a party again, if that's what's grieving you." My stomach knots; my throat suddenly feels needle-thin. "Needless to say," he continues, reading my expression but mistakenly attributing it to the subject matter rather than his word choice, "if you choose to cancel it, I will be more than delighted to inform the guests – "

"We weren't together last year." It slips out, more to myself than to him. Now it's there, though, it's out. I hadn't even let myself think this through yet, but now it's too late, now I can hear the carols echoing faintly from a nearby shop and my hands are heavy and I cannot keep this to myself any longer. It would wrench out of me somehow. Now, at least, perhaps I can rein it in a bit, perhaps I can –

I don't even notice that my knees have gone weak until he's already gotten me to the sofa.

"Here," he says gruffly. He whips off the jacket of his suit and drapes it over me. I register faintly that I had been shivering. He sits close to me and places a long arm around my shoulders and squeezes me toward him, his other hand reaching for mine. He presses his lips to my temple and breathes deeply, holding me tight, and I'm furious that the sob is rising up in me again. "What's that got to do with it, then – our not being together last year?"

"I don't want to talk about this," I say automatically. Even though I've already resigned myself, it's difficult to reconcile my intentions with my actions. I can feel Sherlock's mouth opening for the correct but obnoxious _yes, you do_, but he bites his lip instead and presses a somewhat helpless kiss to my cheek, and then I can't help myself anymore. I kiss him desperately, cupping his surprised face in my hands, and I thrust my tongue into the warm familiarity of his mouth as he pulls me closer, and when I pull away he's wiping back my tears.

Deep breaths, John Watson.

I steady myself and he lets me, as we settle back into our position. I lean against his shoulder and he threads his fingers through mine. I stare out the window again, but this time, I listen to his heartbeat.

"Do you remember," I start quietly, "how you correctly deduced that you were not the first man I fell in love with, but the second?"

His pulse speeds up ever so slightly, just for a moment, as it always does when I mention I love him. "Yes."

I take a deep breath, and he squeezes my shoulder in encouragement.

"The – the first man I fell in love with died on Christmas." The words come very foreign to me, and I realize I have never spoken them aloud. "Ten years ago, in Afghanistan." The snow outside the window of the flat begins to shift to the snow outside the medic tent. The living room seems to be slipping away, sounds of the war echoing loud and real with the smell of blood and metal and intestine thick in the air, and if it weren't for his arms around me, I would be lost entirely. "He was a soldier. Young, two years younger than me, and I was still a young man then." I can see him vividly, his striking eyes and his handsome smile, but I do not want to speak the words of his description because I know I may choke on them still, and I do not want that. Worse, though, I feel that it's more plausible I won't choke on them at all, because there is a new face of love for me now. I do not want to do this man that disservice. For the same reason, I won't speak his name. "We – we fell in love through stolen lunches behind the mess halls, wounds that long-since healed that he insisted required re-bandaging." I hesitate, but Sherlock's face and body betray no sense of jealousy. One of the times his logic works in my favor – he recognizes that it's purposeless to envy the dead. Still, I need to conclude my story. I can see the clouds of smoke from the grenades where the mantle should be, and I don't like being back here. I like my new battlefield so much more. "We weren't seeing each other long, before" – deep breaths, just keep going – "the bullet. Through the chest, near the heart. He died just past midnight Christmas morning, my hand on his, his eyes fixed on me." The last words taste like metal as I see the face of his corpse flash before me. It lingers briefly, then I see his eyes and cheeks and hair and lips shift the way they have been in my recent nightmares, shift to a more familiar face, painted in blood, on the pavement in front of St. Bart's…

"You ended the worst of your mourning years ago, and haven't let it ruin your Christmases since – "

"As if Harry would let me," I interject drily, though he's right. I blink very hard, but even as the rest of the scene fades, Sherlock's figure cold on the pavement remains etched in my mind.

" – but now, once again, you – you – " Sherlock breaks off. It is not because he doesn't know the rest. He's flushing, slightly. He's still not entirely comfortable with _speaking _sentiment, though he's quite affectionate, really, but I need him right now, and have little patience for shyness.

"Once again," I say, realizing peripherally that I am trembling, "for the first time since that – that incident, I have someone I cannot bear to lose."

His eyes soften rather helplessly. My breathing is coming very shallow now and I'm not entirely sure what to do with myself. A weight has been lifted, but not quite enough.

"John, I – "

"I know it's foolish."

"John – "

"I recognize it's misplaced."

"John – "

"Look here, Sherlock Holmes, if you _dare _judge me for being absolutely terrified that I'm going to lose you, after that stunt you pulled, after those _three bloody years _which you bloody well know I'm never really going to forgive you for, particularly after what I've just told you, I swear, _maybe you don't love me as much as I love you_, because as much as I love what we do, if – if you can't understand this _fucking _fear that you're going to get taken out by a stray bullet, if not a perfectly aimed one, or a horrid torturer of some kind, or bloody pushed into a bus, I – I don't know what you think of me!"

My words hang in the air for a laden moment. _Maybe you don't love me as much as I love you. _The rest of the words feel like crutches, helping me get that one sentence to stand, and he knows it, of course, and I believe I've stopped breathing.

"Those three years were _for _you," he says at last, not unkindly.

Don't you dare make this trivial, Sherlock Holmes.

"I know that," I say miserably. I slide away and sink my head into my hands. "I know that, but – but – this _hurts_, you know, and I just – can't imagine that you hurt in the same way." I speak through gritted teeth, aware of how childish I sound, aware of how speaking one's feelings should _not _be associated with childishness, irritated with myself for being childish, irritated with myself for being irritated with myself, and when I feel Sherlock's weight leave the couch, I almost laugh out loud. Of course. There's my answer. Doesn't want to deal with this, s'got better things to do, s'got murder to solve, why bother with bloody _feelings_, and I've almost dug my fingernails into my scalp when I feel him kneel in front of me.

For one crazy moment, I think he's holding a ring, and my heart leaps into my throat, but I come to my senses and recognize it's a sprig of Mrs. Hudson's mistletoe. In terms of sentiment, given Sherlock's absolute disgust for such conventional trivialities, it's nearly as surprising and sweet.

I let him kiss my cheek, my nose, my forehead, and I am slowly, slowly reassured.

"I know what you thought I was holding," he says quietly, kissing just beneath my ear. I flush pink, which of course he feels. He squeezes my knee gently and pulls back to look in my eyes. "John, if that is something you're interested in, I am completely unopposed." I blink, and when I open my eyes, he's still there, nervous earnestness along his brow. "Yet if we are still in a stage of our relationship where you doubt, even for a moment, that I'm entirely devoted to you – that I would give my life for you, or, indeed, kill for you – then I'm not certain we're ready yet. However, I truly thought I made it clear that my affection for you is not scheduled to diminish within our lifetimes."

"I – " I feel suddenly very foolish.

"Don't you dare feel foolish," he admonishes, and I can't help but grin just a bit, "as, if there's anything you've taught me – well, there's quite a bit, but at any rate – if there's anything you've taught me, it's that we must absolutely never feel guilty or foolish for our emotions. They are good things, if handled correctly, and what I feel for you, John, is absolutely a good thing. And" – those eyes study me piercingly – "what you feel for me, even the parts of it leftover from what you felt for him – that is good as well. He's shaped you, John. Without him, without losing him, you would not be the man you are today. But I promise you – you're _not _going to lose me."

Sherlock swallows very hard at this, and I can tell he's waiting for my approval. A silence spread between us, in which I am aware of how close his body is to me, and how clear and bright his eyes are, and how steady his hand is on my knee.

"You mean," I start quietly, "one day, in the future, you – _you, _Sherlock married-to-your-work Holmes – would be amenable to – to – "

"Committing my life to you," he says calmly. "Yes. When you deem we're ready." His lips part in a small honest smile, and something inside me bubbles with the warmest, most delicious heat. "I'm not scared of much, but I am absolutely petrified of losing you as well, John. I'd be lost without you. You know that as well as I." He leans in to kiss me, but pauses, close enough so I can see the small freckles dusting his pale nose. "Yet I will never tire of reminding you."

And with that I am overwhelmed, and reassured, and absolutely aroused all at once, and so filled with love for him that I can hardly contain. There is a fire crackling in the place, tinsel decorating the mantel, a sprig of mistletoe on the table, and a man who loves me in my arms. For I've wrapped them around him, and pulled him close, and in the next moment he's flipped me onto my back and covers my body with his.

"Thank you," I say hoarsely into his ear. He kisses me slowly, lovingly, letting a soft _mmm_ of assent signify he understands.

You wouldn't think it, looking at him, I don't think – but Sherlock is an absolutely magnificent lover. The first time we were together, I lay stunned afterwards. (_Problem? _he asked, buttoning his shirt. _God, no_, I remember saying, basked in post-orgasmic bliss) He's only improved since then, learning my every preference, and he's particularly attentive when he feels as if he's got something to make up to me.

Today, it seems, is no exception.

He pulls my jumper and shirt over my head, bending immediately to kiss me again and warm my body as the cool air makes me shiver.

"_My darling,_" he murmurs. His tongue slips into my mouth and strokes mine gently. He tastes like tea and the biscuits I'd coerced him into having, and he's warm. He intertwines his legs with mine, and I can feel him, half-hard already, even through our trousers. He runs his fingers through my hair and closes his lips around that spot on my throat that he always knows how to work perfectly, and sure enough, elicits a moan from my lips and a throb from my growing erection.

Unlike most other lovers I've had, Sherlock is passionately sincere during sex. I wonder sometimes if that's what makes him so fantastic at it, that he genuinely focuses on me and my pleasure with all of the effort otherwise geared toward his work. I don't question it very heavily, to be honest.

He ruts against me gently, letting his lips find mine again. His kisses are small but deep. Not messy, but long, impassioned, and focused, and when he pulls away I'm panting, and fully hard. He smiles at me earnestly, and sweeps his hair out of his eyes. I let out a low moan – I know what that move signifies. Sure enough, in the next moment he moves to kneel on the floor, pull my feet on either side of him, and ease my trousers and pants off my legs. Merely the sensation of his long fingers on my stomach is enough to make my cock ache, and when he licks his lips as he exposes me – right there in the middle of the living room – I grip the sides of the couch hard.

"_Mine_," he says, almost to himself, before he takes me full in his throat. His mouth is tight and expert around me. His hands stroke the inside of my thighs, parting my legs wider, and the curves of my stomach and hips. He bobs his head slowly, in contrast to the quick movements of his tongue against my slit, where I know precum is leaking. His palm finds my balls and works them gently, thumb flicking under every so often, to nudge against my entrance.

My eyes are squeezed shut, my breathing shallow. Each movement of his tongue and fingers sends the most delicious shivers down my spine, each languorous nod of his head bringing me closer.

"I – I want – " I buck against his thumb. On another afternoon, he'd get off on embarrassing me by making me spell it out, but today he only pulls back and wipes his mouth before following me to the bedroom.

I lie back on our bed and marvel at how it's absolutely _our _bedroom, not his or mine but _ours_, and how we've crafted this mad life together, and now our Christmas party is hosted by a real couple.

"Hmm?" he inquires, unscrewing the familiar bottle of lubricant. He, of course, can read that there's a degree of pleasure in my expression not rooted only in my cock. I shake my head.

"I love you, Sherlock, that's all."

He flashes a grin and bends to kiss me.

"I should think that's quite enough," he teases. I push him in mock offense, only to pull him back again, kicking off his trousers and pants and last. He lets out the most delicious, raw moan as I wrap my legs around him and rut our erections together. "And I love you too," he says quietly. I pull him into another deep kiss, thrusting my tongue between his lips, before I let him sit back and drip lube onto his slender fingers.

He is tall enough that he can trace my entrance with a slick index finger while he dusts my throat with kisses. His free arm cradles my shoulders, and I pull up my legs high to grant him entrance, and he slips into me. My breath hitches as he slowly fucks me with his finger, moving so impossibly deep, pressing around that spot – not directly against it, not yet, but close enough to make me clutch at him.

"How does this feel?" His voice rumbles low in my ear as he adds a second finger, and my eyes are shut tight now.

"Incredible," I say through gritted teeth. That's Sherlock, that's Sherlock Holmes, those long fingers that wrap around riding crops and that damn mobile, they're in me now, they're filling me right now. He opens me gently, tenderly, the movements a sex act all on their own. I can feel my neglected cock leaking precum steadily on my stomach. With one last deep kiss, he pulls his fingers out and positions his lithe body between my legs. He watches me fondly, naked on the bed we share, and I smile back at him before my face contorts with pleasure and strain as he enters me. He takes hold of my cock immediately and strokes me just the way I like it. His thrusts begin slow, pulling nearly all the way out of me, before pressing in right up against that spot now. Steadily, they increase – not in speed, but in intensity.

It begins again, what happens nearly every time we make love. The rest of the world begins to fade. There is only his thick cock filling me, stretching me, thrusting into me, hard, determined. There is only his hand around my length, stroking me, coaxing me, strong, affectionate. There is only his face, his soft smile wrought with indecent arousal, focused on me and what our bodies are creating together. There is only his soft moans, his sharp breaths, his low murmurs.

"_Sherlock_…"

"I'm here, my love." There is only the rhythm. There is only the steady rhythm of our bodies together and the heat and the love they create, and that is all there is, really, and that is all that matters in the end. "Cum for me, darling. I've got you; I'm here. I've got you." And I feel so incredibly safe in his arms, so loved when his body is on my body, and he strokes my cock and it feels better than anything else I can ever experience, the feeling of someone separate from me coaxing my neurons and nerve endings to react in the most intimate way, so specific to my own body and he's controlling it, he's bringing my body to orgasm, stimulating me perfectly – "Relax, my love," comes his voice through the chaos of my buzzing mind, "relax, I've got you. Breathe. I'm here." And I do, and I let my mind fall silent and I give over my body to his hands, and then I'm coming, and I'm shaking, and everything is him and us and he's got me, he's got me.

The orgasm shudders through me like the clearest, cleanest silence, the peak of erotic stimulation – sheer, white-hot pleasure. My mouth falls open and my back arches into him, and I feel my cum splayed on my stomach, and it's him, it's him that's given this to me.

I come down slowly, still tingling. I feel him slip out of me the moment before it gets to be too much for me, and I reach for him but he's already finishing, he'd been close. He releases onto the bedspread, and I intertwine my fingers with his free hand as his hair falls into his eyes, as his panting breaths wrack his strained body.

He falls back to the bed with his arms open for me and I fall into them. Our bodies are damp and sticky, and we're getting the sheets into an awful mess, and I don't care one bit.

"Thank you," I say again, rather weakly. He gives a chuckle, but he understands what I mean. The _for everything_ is implied, it always is.

"Always."

The snow is coming down thicker now. I watch it through our window and imagine our holidays to come. Perhaps we'll go somewhere warm for the holidays sometime. I wonder what sort of swimsuit he wears? I think I'll try and make some gingerbread tea tomorrow and give it to him without telling him, see if he likes it.

An image floats through my head, unbidden, of a potential future Christmas – where not two, but three stockings hang above our mantle. Maybe even four, at some point. With little mittens drying near the fire after a day out in the park – maybe Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be too opposed to knocking some hot chocolate for us, either.

Sherlock strokes my hair distractedly, drifting in and out of a nap. We've got to be up to shower before the party guests arrive, but post-sex is one of the few times I can actually get him to sleep properly. I lay curled up next to his even breathing for a long time.

I think he'd be a much lovelier father than he'd reckon.

I'm not so sure about myself, but I think one day I – I would like to find out.

I watch his unguarded face, feeling warm and safe. Presently, I shift, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"Mmm?"

"We've got to be up for the guests, love."

"Mmm."

I pull myself up, and lazily begin to get things together for a shower.

"John?" comes the half-asleep voice from the bed.

"Yeah?"

"Happy Christmas."

**END**


End file.
